Like Stone Turned Into Dust
by azkabcn
Summary: John watches Sherlock live his life without him and can't help but feel down heartened that he isn't remembered Drabble.


**A/N: Hi there, fellow Sherlockians! Welcome to another one-shot fic from me! Please, read and leave a review.**

I watch him from above. I watch as he goes on solving crimes, being the best Consulting Detective he can be. I feel saddened that I am not remembered, that everything that we ever had for the past three years has been deleted from his mind, thrown out of the window. I try to watch him without tears, but I cannot seem to see him live his life without sobbing.

I watch now as he stands by the window, his violin tucked in between his chin and shoulder. How I wish to hear the melody of his classic compositions again. I can only look on in silence; it is like having a thick screen in between he and I. I follow his hands as they work skillfully with the strings and bow, and as his eyelids slowly drop closed as he gets engaged in the tune.

I see Mrs Hudson, our - no, his - landlady, walk into the room with a tray. A cup and pot (which I assume is full of tea) lay atop it and she sets it on the table in front of her, patiently waiting. He doesn't acknowledge that she's behind him. His hands continue to work. He is in his second element - the first being his work. Obviously.

I remember how I used to accompany him on these crime solving adventures. I used to run after him when he was hot on the tails of some murderer or thief. All of that lays behind us now as we are not Sherlock Holmes and John Watson any longer. He is just Sherlock Holmes. I am nobody. I am dead, with a just-recently-patched-up gaping wound in my shoulder.

I went to war and was shot in the shoulder. Again. This time I died. I was knocked down and ran over. I didn't get to say goodbye. But I want to. He doesn't. I want to turn back time and say goodbye. I wish I didn't deny his hug when he saw me off at the airport. I didn't want to feel bad for leaving the one person I love.

And I still do love him. I love him more than anything. I just wish I wasn't so stupid. I need him. I need to feel his arms around me, his lips on mine. I just need _him_. I feel the tears coming. I know that I can't hold it in anymore. Watching him live when I am denied the opportunity is just heart breaking.

I see him put his violin down and turn to Mrs Hudson. They exchange a few words. That is another thing I am missing out on. His voice. His melodic voice. The melodic voice that calmed me when nightmares took me over. I _need_ to hear that melodic voice.

Mrs Hudson leaves the room and he sits in his chair. He doesn't reach for the pot of tea and cup, though. He sits, his hands fisted. I see that he is uncomfortable. Why would _he_ be uncomfortable? Then something extraordinary happens. A tear slips down his cheek.

He doesn't bother to wipe it away. Another tear falls. And another. Why is he crying? I want to reach out and comfort him. He looks so forlorn. I want to understand what is making him cry. He has no one to listen to him now; no one to understand him.

I suddenly hear something, loud and clear, and I am so overwhelmed that I want to cry out of happiness.

" _I need you, John. I love you."_

I hear his voice! I can't believe it! I can actually hear his voice!

" _Why did you have to leave me here alone? I don't have anyone now."_

He remembers me! He really remembers me! I can't believe he remembers me!

" _Can you come back? Please John. There's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle. John, for me, don't be dead."_

I let the tears fall. He needs me. He loves me. And I know how hard it must be for him to admit that so I feel extremely touched. I cry because I said those words to him after he jumped off of the roof of St. Bartholomew's. The only difference is that he _wasn't_ dead.

I really am dead. There's no going back now. I can't undo this. But, oh how I want to. I want to go back and undo _everything._ I want to undo getting the letter. I want to undo accepting the 'offer'. I want to undo denying him the hug.

... I can't. I can't undo _anything_.

But I want to. And we can dream.

"Sherlock. I'm sorry. I love you."


End file.
